


I Expect To Be Robbed

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Porn With Plot, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bahorel!” Montparnasse shouts over <i>knocking me out with those American thighs</i>, and gestures to the cushion in front of him. “Feel brave enough to get a tattoo?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Expect To Be Robbed

**Author's Note:**

> Occurs, chronologically, before the other parts. Title is from Traveler, by Heather Sommer. Officially now the longest thing I have written.

It's midnight, or close to, and Bahorel thinks he needs to start getting drunk if he's going to last out this party. Everyone around him is drunk, stoned, or both. The apartment is dim and smoky and the air is thick with a laziness, and Bahorel's thinks that he might start a fight, because that would be more interesting than watching dumb-asses make out sloppily in the corner. The only redeeming thing about this party is the AC/DC playing over the stereo, and whoever had the brilliant idea of _tattoos_.

He doesn't know what made him come along to this party, but some part of him thinks that he might as well leave with something, and since Montparnasse is waving around a pencil with a _sewing needle_ attached to the end, Bahorel decides _what the fuck ever_.

He's not exactly the bastion of good ideas in the first place, after all.

So he gets up, making his way over to where Montparnasse is just finishing a tattoo of something that Bahorel doesn't recognise, something you probably have to be fifteen beers and two joints deep to recognise. He estimates that's how much Montparnasse has had tonight, and that's assuming he hasn't found _other_ substances to have some recreational fun with. Bahorel could count the ways this is a bad idea, but he would likely run out of fingers.

“Bahorel!” Montparnasse shouts over _knocking me out with those American thighs,_ and gestures to the cushion in front of him. “Feel brave enough to get a tattoo?”

“When I was seventeen, yeah,” Bahorel replies, absently scratching at his shoulder. “After that it stopped being about bravery and more about what looks good.”

It's not exactly a secret that he's tattooed. Most can't be seen with his shirt on, but they're there.

A shitty stick-n-poke tattoo isn't enough to even make him nervous, he probably experienced more pain pouring whiskey on to grazed knuckles. So he sits down, making himself comfortable on the cushion, and he's about to mention that maybe Montparnasse should at least stop drinking long enough to ask him where he wants this tattoo, when someone else appears from fucking nowhere.

Someone else who, when Bahorel looks up with a vague disinterest and mild annoyance, is fucking _attractive._ Not conventionally, but Bahorel doesn't give a fuck about conventions and this guy, _this guy,_ screams cocky-son-of-a-bitch from his wild, curly hair and the pink shirt claiming _my boyfriend is gay,_ down to the combat boots that aren't even laced.

“No. Oh, fuck no, Montparnasse, no way in _hell_ am I letting you do that,” The guy says, nudging Montparnasse with the toe of his boot. “Gimme the needle. Go find something to do.”

Bahorel's a moment away from probably starting something, except the guy slides smoothly into the place Montparnasse vacates, and obviously this is just a change of the vanguard. Except Bahorel knows _nothing_ about this guy, where at least he knows Montparnasse isn't carrying some deadly disease.

“Are you sober?” Bahorel asks, throwing the words over his shoulder to where the guy is sitting. A hand comes into view, though his eyes are immediately drawn to the three thick, black bands that encircle the guy's forearm.

“Sober as the day I was born,” he says, and holds his hand out flat. “See? Not shaking at all.”

“I'm not here for the pissing contest between you and Montparnasse, I just want a memento of this shitty fucking party so I can go home,” Bahorel says, and physically turns so he can look at the guy over his shoulder. He's grinning, a lopsided smile that pulls at a dimple in his cheek.

“No pissing contest,” the guy says, mouth quirking around his words. He's sardonic, dripping sarcasm, and obviously there's a whole other world of shit going on there. “I just thought I'd give you the privilege of having a _real_ tattoo artist do your shitty memento.”

“I'm pretty sure Montparnasse has been claiming to be a _real tattoo artist_ all night too,” Bahorel says, disappointed. No matter how good looking this guy is, Bahorel's tolerance for bullshit is too low to deal with him. Except the guy moves, lifting his hips to first pull a wallet from his pocket, and then a business card from the wallet. He holds it out, and grins, twirling the pencil taken from Montparnasse around his fingers.

It reads ' _This Shit's Permanent_ – _Tattoos and Piercing',_ then _Grantaire_ , and Bahorel knows enough about tattoos to recognise _that_ name instantly.

“Well, fuck,” he says simply, and looks up at Grantaire, mildly impressed. Grantaire just shrugs, and smiles.

“Yeah, I,” He says, then shrugs _again_ and fuck, Bahorel thinks this guy almost looks shy, “Just call me R, yeah? I don't wanna be doing tattoos the whole night, it's my day off.”

Bahorel decides, right then, that if he doesn't get to fuck this guy tonight, he's gonna be extremely disappointed. He's already been looking for a way to get Feuilly out of his system, and he thinks that this tattooed, smirking stranger could be a good place to start.

So he does the most logical, natural thing he can think of, and strips off his shirt. He knows what he looks like, he doesn't pour time and money into boxing and tattoos to be fucking modest. He knows he's not imagining the inhaled breathed that comes from behind him, muted beneath _the thunder of guns tore me apart_.

“That's some work,” Grantaire says, pressing a finger against one of the lines on Bahorel's shoulder, and leans in to study the design. “Clean lines, good shading, no bleeding. Don't see many decent blackwork tattoos around.”

“That's 'cause there's only two decent fucking blackwork tattoo artists in the whole goddamn city,” Bahorel says, because he knows this shit, he knows that of the two artists, one _did_ his tattoo and the other _is sitting behind him._

There's a silence between them and Grantaire twirls the already-stringed pencil between his fingers absently. He looks almost unsure about Bahorel’s comment, as if trying to work out which artists he’s referring to. The silence drags, until someone changes the music, flicking from a hard rock to a mellow rap and Grantaire snarls “Don't touch the fucking stereo!”

“R,” Bahorel says, rolling the sound off his tongue thickly, “You live here?”

“I wouldn't call it live,” Grantaire replies, shrugging. “I have a bedroom here I sleep in, but that's as close as I want to identify to this death-trap shit hole.”

Grantaire looks at the stuff laid out next to him, hovering his hand over it and moving his lips, as if doing a silent inventory. He doesn’t seem pleased, picking up a makeshift petri dish and wrinkling his nose.

“This better be India ink,” Grantaire says, lip curling as he studies the blank ink pooling in the dish.

“If it's not?” Bahorel asks.

“I'm probably going to kill you,” Grantaire replies, and Bahorel can't help the laugh that comes from him. For someone he's never met before, he's amazed at the ease their conversation flows, at the back-and-forth banter that never becomes insulting. Christ, he could see himself being actually _friends_ with this guy.

Grantaire sets the pencil down, balancing it on the rim of the dish, and gestures a hand to Bahorel's shoulder, saying “What do you want and where do you want it?”

Bahorel reaches over his shoulder, tapping a finger against a blank section of skin and simply says, “Go wild.”

“You don't know me,” Grantaire says, giving him a curious look, as if he's trying to judge if Bahorel is someone he really wants to do this with. Tattoos are supposed be something you _think_ about, not something you trust to a random stranger in a seedy apartment, except Bahorel doesn't care about what he's _supposed_ to do. He never has.

“That's what makes it a story,” Bahorel replies with a lazy shrug. Apparently this is the right answer, because Grantaire grins and picks up the marker, uncapping it with his teeth. Bahorel turns his head forward, and feels the coolness press against his skin as Grantaire starts drawing. It doesn't take too long, there's only so much that can be done with a needle stuck to the end of a pencil, but Bahorel can tell that whatever Grantaire is drawing, it has enough detail to be more than an anchor, or a heart.

“Alright,” Grantaire says, setting the marker aside and doing _something_ that Bahorel can't see. “Last chance to back out of a terrible decision.”

“I'm not backing out of shit,” Bahorel says, throwing a tiger's grin over his shoulder, and Grantaire's laugh gets lost in _stand up and be counted for what you're about to receive_ , and he's moving.

There's the sudden coolness of the rubbing alcohol being applied to his skin, and then Grantaire is shifting, curling in and stretching the skin of his shoulder in a way that's entirely professional. He huffs out a breath and with a soft _pop_ , feels the needle go into his skin. There's another three pokes, precise between the warmth of Grantaire's fingers, before Grantaire is re-dipping the needle in the ink and returning. Bahorel knows the should probably talk some more, _get to know each other_ , but he slips into the comfortable silence, the lets him focus on the music and the feeling of pain on his shoulder. He tangles his fingers in what hair he has, breathes calmly and _relaxes_. He can feel the warmth radiating from Grantaire's body behind him like he's a goddamn furnace, the soft exhalations against the back of his neck, and wonders how he sounds in reverse, gasping and groaning.

 _Pop, pop, pop,_ re-dip.

_No stop signs, speed limits, nobody's gonna slow me down_

Bahorel loses track of time. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, watching people go past, mingle, drink but leave them undisturbed. No one talks to them, except for one person offering them both a drink that neither of them accepted. It's just been them, and Bahorel notices that Grantaire's hand has flattened, palm fitting against his shoulder, and he's moved in closer until his calves are pressed to Bahorel's lower back.

Then he laughs, low and quiet, as if realising something and says, “You got a name, tiger?”

“It's not fucking _tiger_ ,” Bahorel counters, and Grantaire pokes the needle in, just a bit harder. “Alright, fuck, it's Bahorel.”

“Bahorel,” Grantaire repeats to himself, rolling the sound through his mouth and smiling as though he enjoys it. Bahorel thinks _fuck this_ , he wants this guy and if he can have him, he's going to do that too.

He keeps a loose track of time by the way each song changes over, but it feels like forever until Grantaire sits up, wipes the ink off his shoulder and proudly declares “We’re done.”

There’s a tingling under his skin, a pins-and-needles as Grantaire cleans the tattoo, and Bahorel can hear him mumbling about _hygiene_.

“Alright,” Grantaire says, and Bahorel’s sure his hands are lingering longer than necessary against his skin, “Here’s the speech. Wash it with antibacterial soap, don’t soak it, buy some Neosporin or something to put on it three times a day and don’t be an idiot about it.”

“Very professional,” Bahorel laughs, tries to ignore the way Grantaire’s hand is still sitting on his shoulder.

“You want professional, don’t get a tattoo with a sewing needle in a seedy apartment,” Grantaire says, smiling at Bahorel and Bahorel is _done_. He’s dragged this out long enough and he’s getting what he wants, _right the fuck now_.

“What about sex?” He asks, rolling his shoulders to shake out the tension. He can hear Grantaire falter for a second.

“Yeah, you can still do that, as long as you're careful,” Grantaire says, and obviously this isn't the first time someone's asked him. Bahorel can only imagine the dumbass questions Grantaire has been asked over the course of his career.

“Good. Where's your bedroom?” Bahorel asks, and smirks at the way Grantaire's hands falter, mid-clean up. He recovers quick enough, and grins wickedly in return.

“Are you propositioning me?” He asks, leaning in close enough that the material of his shirt brushes against Bahorel's back.

“Are you accepting?” Bahorel asks, giving him an expectant look, and he turns his head in time to catch Grantaire's tongue sweeping across his lower lip. There's something between them, not an instant spark but a slow unfurling, and Grantaire's grin is all parts desire as he hisses consent against Bahorel's shoulder.

Then Grantaire is on his feet, finding his balance and waiting for Bahorel to join him. He doesn't hold a hand out, just rocks back on his heels and grins expectantly.

Bahorel rolls to his feet in one smooth, practiced moment and his spine uncurls in stiff relief from sitting too long. He makes a noise and pushes back his shoulders until he hears the soft popping sound of things crackling back into place. Grantaire is watching him, eyebrow raised.

“Fucking _Christ_ , tiger, did they feed you plant food as a kid or something?” He asks, neck tilted back to look up at Bahorel. Bahorel absently thinks Grantaire would probably fit just under his chin.

“My father is actually Conan the Barbarian,” he offers in reply and Grantaire jerks his head to the side, indicating Bahorel to follow him as he picks through the drunk and stoned bodies that litter his apartment. Someone whistles, probably Montparnasse and calls out _go get 'em, tiger_ and Bahorel is rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt. Grantaire, in response, reaches back and grabs Bahorel's forearm, _pulling_. He can feel the edge of _something_ , curling just under his skin, can tell Grantaire's the same by the way his fingers flex compulsively.

Bahorel, naturally, does the most helpful thing he can think of.

“I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name,” he says, leaning down just to growl the words against Grantaire's ear, and with a muffled curse Grantaire pulls him forcefully into an empty room.

The door clicks behind them, and the music reduces to a muffed throb of bass and unintelligible lyrics, the cut off _watch me explo--,_ and they're suddenly alone in a room lit only by a bedside lamp.

Bahorel takes in the room with quick glances. It's a mess, a loud flurry of things everywhere, taking up space and consuming the room whole. There's books, stacked together in short towers, a who's who list of authors in _Keroac, Orwell, Homer, Dante, Bradbury and Plato._ There's nothing sentimental here, no photos or keepsakes, and Bahorel gets the impression that Grantaire likes to live in the present, or at the very least, there's nothing he wants to remind him of the past. The bed is the focal point of the room, and as messy as it. Unmade sheets, an explosion of pillows, a thrown leather jacket and a haphazard collection of sketches that Grantaire sweeps to the floor without consideration.

Bahorel grabs at him, pressing bruises into his hips as he brings them together, and there's a part of him that wants to unravel Grantaire and find out what's lying beneath his skin. It's been a long time since he's had this reaction to someone, _apparently he has a thing for artists_ , except Grantaire is curving into him, pressing their mouths together, open and hot and stripping him of any hesitation.

Bahorel pushes, keeps pushing, until the back of Grantaire's legs hit the bed and they're tumbling down into the pile of blankets, sheets and pillows. Bahorel can feel his shoulder pull as he pushes up on his arms so he doesn't crush Grantaire beneath him, though Grantaire surges up anyway, catching him in a hot kiss. His fingers push at the thin cotton tee Grantaire is wearing, rucking it up to splay his hand along his ribcage. Bahorel can feel calloused fingers brushed along the shaved sides of his head, then tangle in the soft, loose hair. Bahorel wants to devour him and Grantaire is trying to discover every inch of his mouth.

They break apart with a need for air, and Grantaire is sitting up, fingers catching in the hem of his own shirt and pulling it off. He tosses it aside, and Bahorel's eyes flick down his torso, taking stock of the tattoos he finds. There's surprisingly few, a date scrawled across his chest, the outline of a work in progress on his ribs, and _love is not a victory march_ following the arc of his hip.

“That's depressing, don't you think?” Bahorel says, palm settling on Grantaire's hip.

“You should hear my _reasons_ for it,” Grantaire says, smiling sardonically, though he thumbs at the button of Bahorel's jeans.

“I'd rather hear you shut up,” Bahorel growls, and Grantaire's grin widens as he pushes the jeans down. Bahorel kicks them off without finesse, reaches for the belt-loops in Grantaire's own pair, so tight they should be painted on, and Bahorel wonders if he'll have to _peel_ them off. He tugs with intent. He wants them both naked. It's like the tail end of a fight, the adrenaline coursing under his skin that makes him want to bite and bruise and leave Grantaire fucked out and wanting _more_.

He doesn't even know this guy.

He wants to.

Grantaire's gone, digging into his nightstand and making an accomplished noise when he finds what he was looking forward. He has his fingers wrapped around a bottle of lube, which he unceremoniously tosses onto the bed, followed immediately by a condom and smirks as he says “Don't lose that.”

They press back together, clothes gone, two wild things meeting, and Bahorel sits back, pulling Grantaire with him. Except Grantaire doesn't stop moving, rolling his hips as soon as he straddles Bahorel's thighs, mouth and teeth finding the corded muscle beneath the skin of his neck. Bahorel's hands are mapping the outline of Grantaire's ribs, following the dip of his waist and moving to sit against his lower back. He tugs, leveraging them together and catches Grantaire's mouth in a hot, open kiss. He reaches blindly for where he remembers the lube landing, closes his fingers around it and grins against Grantaire's mouth.

Grantaire doesn't stop moving, watching Bahorel with bright eyes as he slicks up his fingers and Bahorel drinks him in. His hair has come loose from the tie, curling around his shoulders and clinging to his face. He looks pleased, flushed with anticipation and reckless abandon and it's a good look on him. Bahorel tosses the lube aside, circles his arm back around Grantaire's body and laughs against his jaw.

“C'mon, asshole,” Grantaire says, tugging on his hair. “Quit being a dick.”

Bahorel works a finger into him, slowly, and Grantaire's breath catches in his throat. He presses his hips back and it only takes him a moment to adjust, before he's moving with Bahorel, and Bahorel's surprised at just how _easy_ it was to make Grantaire stop talking.

“Come on, then,” Bahorel says, grinning cat-like as Grantaire glares at him. “Tell me those reasons.”

“Are you serious? You want me to talk about this shit now?” Grantaire asks with a surprised laugh, and Bahorel uses his free hand to stop him moving.

“Why the fuck not?” Bahorel smirks, mouth grazing over Grantaire's jaw as he presses a second finger into him, and he hears the muffled groan that escapes from Grantaire's chest.

“It's - _fuck, fuck you asshole_ \- song lyrics, it means love is bullshit,” Grantaire says, starting to shake at the way Bahorel's fingers open him up. “Love isn't cute, or romantic, or _fuck_ , or easy. When you love someone you're giving yourself to them, they can basically destroy you, it's-- it's bullshit.”

“Jesus, are you fucking kidding me? I've landed in bed with a cynic?” Bahorel laughs, hand flexing where it holds Grantaire's thighs in place.

“I'm a nihilist, too,” Grantaire grins, wild, until Bahorel curls his fingers and his grin is gone, lost to a gasp and the shudder that runs down his spine.

“Fuck me,” Bahorel growls, eyes rolling, and Grantaire mumbles _that's the plan_ against his throat and rocks, lifting himself up with a lithe grace. He's fucking himself on Bahorel's fingers, and Bahorel uses that as an excuse to add a third, stretching him. The noise Grantaire makes is obscene, and Bahorel kisses him, takes it from his mouth, swallowing his sounds.

Grantaire pulls back then, bending himself to reach for the condom, and Bahorel makes an appreicative noise at his flexibility, makes a mental note to _remember that_ if they ever do this again. He's not counting on it, one night stands don't happen twice, but just in case, _if_.

Grantaire tears the foil open with his teeth, and Bahorel is pulling his fingers back because they don't need to exchange words to know how this progresses. This is the great thing about sex, Bahorel thinks, he knows nothing about this guy but he knows how looks when he's rolling a condom onto Bahorel's cock with an expert flair.

Grantaire’s fingers curl around him, applying lube, stroking along the length of his cock until Bahorel groans and pulls him back, fitting Grantaire’s legs against his thighs. Grantaire grabs his wrists, taking control, keeping Bahorel in place until he can sink down slowly. Bahorel drops his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, groans at how _easily_ Grantaire takes him, at how _tight and good_ he feels.

He’s speaking aloud, and Grantaire is whining low as he settles, giving himself a moment to adjust to feeling so full.

Then Grantaire starts rocking, lifting his hips up in a slow drag. Bahorel settles his hands against Grantaire’s hips, tries to get him to move, except Grantaire’s thighs tighten to keep himself in place. He bites at Bahorel’s lip, laughs, and Bahorel knows this asshole is teasing, is _deliberately_ keeping his thrusts shallow and slow.

Bahorel moves to meet him, snapping his hips up as much as he can, but it’s _not enough_ and Grantaire doesn’t seem to care. He’s groaning, grabbing at Bahorel’s back, but he continues rolling his hips slowly, barely letting Bahorel move.

He feels like a frayed rope being pulled taut, shaking apart beneath Grantaire’s careful revenge, and it’s _not enough._

“Move,” Bahorel growls, catching Grantaire’s earlobe between his teeth and tugging roughly. Grantaire laughs breathlessly, but instead of moving, he settles himself still in Bahorel’s lap. He shifts, tightening his body around Bahorel’s cock but keeps himself in place.

Something inside him snaps.  

He hooks his hands under Grantaire's thighs and lifts, muscles tensing, before dropping him onto his back on the mattress. Grantaire keens, low, and instantly wraps his legs around Bahorel's waist, pulling him down.

This time he controls it, abandons Grantaire's teasing slowness for hard and fast. Grantaire rolls his hips into each thrust, and his head tips back, exposing the pale column of his throat, and Bahorel _wants_.

So he does, leaning down, arms holding his weight, and grazes his teeth over Grantaire's skin. It's asking permission, permission Grantaire gives when he tangles his fingers in Bahorel's hair and tugs.

He bites down, and _it's not possessive, he doesn't know Grantaire_ , but Grantaire doesn't seem to care, is arching into him and Bahorel knows he's close. He can feel the tight coiling under his skin, and he's gripping Grantaire's thighs hard enough to bruise, anchoring himself as he slams his hips forward. By the way Grantaire groans, breathless, and hisses _don't fucking stop_ , Bahorel can tell he isn't lasting either.

He knows he should try to be quiet and not let the entire party know they're having sex, except Grantaire groans, fingers scrabbling for purchase against Bahorel's shoulders and he thinks _fuck it_.

He's driving forward, hips losing rhythm, but he doesn't stop. He fists his hands in the sheets, and they move together, Grantaire open and eager, Bahorel hard and relentless. His hair sticks to the back of his neck, and Grantaire's nails score down his back, and that's all it takes. A snarl works its way from him, turning into a rough groan as he buries himself fully into Grantaire's body and comes.

It takes him a moment, but with breath coming in short, sharp bursts, he curls his hand around Grantaire's cock and strokes without finesse, bringing him over too. Grantaire's hips stutter, and his back curves in a lithe arch, a low keening noise escaping his throat as he comes.

“Fuck, look at you,” Bahorel says, growls, the words slipping out without his permission. Grantaire either doesn't hear him, or just doesn't care, he's too busy gripping at Bahorel's arms and panting, harshly. His chest convexes, and his hips twitch, before he grins wide.

“God _damn_ ,” Grantaire says, and laughs, reaching up and pushing damp curls away from his face. “Holy _fuck_ , that was...”

Bahorel's arms strain from keeping his weight up, and he has to move. He pulls from Grantaire, ignoring the soft whine that comes from Grantaire's throat, and collapses next to him instead. He ties the condom up, and Grantaire waves a hand lazily at what Bahorel guesses it supposed to be the trashcan. He tosses it, then slumps back down, pressing his face into the pillow while his breathing slows and his heart stops racing.

Bahorel has done this enough times not to feel a need to stay, or cuddle, or talk about seeing each either again. He's objective enough to recognise that this was one night, one person, one round of casual-but-mind blowing sex, and it's for that reason that he only stays long enough to catch his breath. Then he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and surveying the floor to try and find what clothes are his. He finds his shirt, his jeans, his leather jacket and by this time Grantaire is propping himself up on his elbows to watch. He's naked, fucked out and looks extremely proud of it. He's still grinning.

“Looking for something?” He asks, as Bahorel clutches his jeans in one hand and sweeps the room once more.

“My boxers,” he says, and gives up. He pulls his jeans on, and tugs them up. Grantaire is laughing.

“They’re in here somewhere," he says, then sits up properly, sitting cross-legged in his own bed with the sheets pooling around him. Bahorel's still fucking attracted to him. “Thanks for the memento, I guess.”

Then that's it. Bahorel has his shirt on and his jacket in his hand, he's gotten what he wants from this party and from Grantaire, there's no need for him to continue hanging around. He gets to the door, hand closed around the handle, catches the tail end of _n_ _obody's putting up a fight_ when Grantaire hitches in a breath to speak.

“Hey, tiger? If you ever want me to fix up that thing on your shoulder, gimme a call," Grantaire says, calmly, lifting one shoulder up in a shrug. "My number's on the card."

Bahorel pauses, thinks about if he wants to do this, wants to potentially get involved in something. He weighs the good, _fucking great_ , sex against the chance of _emotions_ , but it seems like Grantaire has a level head. It's easy to keep things strictly professional, and if they do feel like hooking up again, well it's easy to keep things casual, too. Bahorel shrugs. _What the hell_.

“I _have_ been looking for a new tattoo artist," Bahorel says after a moment. His fingers flex against the door, and he grins wide, before leaving.

And it's not a promise, it's not a commitment to something more between them.

But it's a start.


End file.
